Take Me Back to the Start
by forthecoast
Summary: Six times they never met and one time they almost did. SandyKirsten.


**Title:** Take Me Back to the Start  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine.  
**Category:** Sandy/Kirsten  
**Spoilers:** A few references to people/events from the series, but really this is AU.  
**Summary:** Six times they never met and one time they (almost) did. Sandy/Kirsten.  
**Notes:** This is my first shot at fanfic in The OC universe. Although I loved the show on its first airing, after my summer re-watch project, I noticed nuances in the characters that I never really paid attention to before. This fic is step one of my exploring a few of those nuances. Or, in other words, this is a tribute to my overactive imagination. Consider yourself warned. ;-)

Also, please watch for the shameless Gossip Girl reference in #4. I can't help myself, I am convinced that Lily and Kirsten are friends.

**Soundtrack listings:**  
Dire Straits - Romeo and Juliet  
Taylor Swift - Stay Beautiful  
Sia - Rewrite  
Coldplay - The Scientist  
Vienna Teng - In Another Life  
The Postal Service - Brand New Colony  
John Mayer - Love Song For No One

xxx

_Juliet, the dice was loaded from the start  
and I bet, then you exploded in my heart  
and I forget, I forget the movie song  
when you gonna realize, it was just that the time was wrong?_  
-Dire Straits, "Romeo and Juliet"

xxx

1.

He hesitates before climbing the front steps.

He still isn't sure why he agreed to this - aside from the issue practically being forced on him. Senator Stevens stopped by his office a week ago, not to talk about the Environmental Action Bill they plan to introduce, but to intrude on his personal life.

Sandy always liked Senator Stevens' wife but, as he stands on the doorstep of one of the biggest houses in the neighborhood, he considers rescinding his previous opinion. He double checks the address one last time and, before he loses his nerve, reaches forward to ring the doorbell.

When the door opens, he knows he misread the address because the woman who stands before him is at least ten years his senior. But she just smiles at him and speaks in deliberate English that does not hide her accent, "You must be Mr. Sandy. I'm Lucia. Come in, I'll let Ms. Kirsten know that you're here."

He nods, speechless, and fights the sudden and overwhelming feeling of inadequacy that settles in the pit of his stomach. Even from the foyer, he knows that he is way out of his comfort zone. What the hell was Elaine Stevens thinking?

Sandy considers himself moderately successful - in a manner that even manages to please his mother. As chief counsel for one of the more successful, progressive US Senators, he never found reason to doubt himself before. And really, he doesn't doubt himself, but he does wonder where his boss' wife got the idea that he would have anything in common with this Kirsten. This must be Elaine's sick idea of a practical joke.

"Ms. Kirsten? Ms. Kirsten?"

He turns his head to see Lucia speaking into an intercom system.

Lucia turns to him, quietly muttering something in Spanish. "Excuse me," she apologizes. "If you want to come in and have a seat..."

"I'm fine, thank you," he declines, shoving his hands in his pockets. As Lucia nods politely, he hears another voice nearby.

"I don't care what they're saying. They've been feeding me the same bullshit for the last two weeks. Either they call me back in the morning with a reasonable counter offer or we're going to pull our contract."

He cranes his neck, but the owner of the voice is just out of his sightline.

"Ms. Kirsten," Lucia retreats from the foyer, leaving him alone to eavesdrop. "You need to put the phone away."

"I know, I know, Lucia. I have that thing tonight; I still don't know why Elaine is so dead set on setting me up with some guy who works for her husband. But then, I guess better Elaine than Taryn or Joy. Maybe this one will have a brain. Oh, and speaking of, if Taryn calls please tell her that whatever she wants for the bunting is _fine_. I'm not getting in the middle of her power struggle with Julie Cooper..."

"Ms. Kirsten!" Lucia's voice is more insistent now. "It is 8:00 already."

"Shit!"

Sandy bites back a chuckle. It makes him feel suddenly, inexplicably better to know that she's as halfhearted and hesitant about this as he is.

"Ms. Kirsten says that she'll be ready in five minutes," Lucia says, rejoining him in the foyer. "Maybe you will reconsider coming in, now? I could get you something to drink..."

"Five minutes?" he asks.

Lucia raises her eyebrows and shakes her head. "Something to drink?" she urges.

He laughs in spite of himself and accepts.

---

"Sandy?"

Some twenty-five minutes later, he rises slowly from his seat on the sofa and turns to finally see the woman he'd been wondering about off and on for the last week - and constantly for the last half hour.

Elaine Stevens had not told him much, just that she recently moved back to Newport, worked in real estate development, and was pretty. Elaine Stevens, he decides quickly, liked to go for the understatement.

"Sorry, I was running late. I hope you weren't waiting long." Her voice is soft, almost embarrassed, and she smiles shyly. "I'm Kirsten."

He closes the distance between them and offers her his hand. They laugh, together, nervous.

"Sandy Cohen. And I can assure you that I do, in fact, have a brain."

Her face flushes pink and she wrings her hands together. "Oh God, I'm sorry. You were here the whole time!"

"I was," he confirms. "But don't worry. I work for Senator Stevens, so I'm used to a little mudslinging."

Her eyes close, visibly mortified. "I'm sorry," she repeats, tilting her head slightly. "It's just that some of my friends have made my love life their own personal crusade."

He nods, grins at her cheekily. His aim is not to make her uncomfortable. "It's okay."

"It isn't," she shakes her head. She pauses, a tentative smile playing against her lips. "But if you met the last man my friend Taryn set me up with, you might understand."

He releases a gentle laugh, enjoying her honesty. "So," he suggests, placing a hand on her bare shoulder and leading her towards the front door. "Shall we?"

She tilts her head, meets his eyes. "Let's go," she says. Her voice is still soft, but now no longer embarrassed.

As she walks a few steps ahead of him on the way to his car, he feels a rush of emotions he doesn't quite recognize. It's been too long.

He starts to think that Elaine Stevens might know what she's doing after all.

2.

"Everything looks amazing, Kir," her roommate Allison gestures triumphantly.

She surveys the scene around her, smiling at the turnout, satisfied. "Yes," she agrees. "Even Professor Williams seems pleased."

Allison rolls her eyes. "Stop selling yourself short, Kirsten. You know you're her favorite student; you were going to ace this regardless of the turnout." Her voice trails off, and she waves at two men who were approaching rapidly. Both were tall and verging on lanky, but while one had flaming red hair and freckles, the other had unruly dark hair and thick eyebrows to match. The redhead immediately walks up and kisses Allison, who introduces the pair, "Kirsten, this is my boyfriend Sean and his new roommate Sandy."

"How much is she paying you to show up here and sign in?" Kirsten laughs, flashing a self-deprecating smile in their direction.

"Not enough," the one called Sandy replies with a grin. "We came because we were sure Al was making her third roommate up. She's been dating Sean long enough for _me_ to meet Suzanne and Laurie, but Kirsten? No, she's always at the library or in the studio."

Kirsten shrugs her shoulders sheepishly. "I've been busy."

"We can see that." Sandy raises an arm to her drawings, sketches, and paintings that line the walls of the gallery.

"Overacheiver." Allison laughs and hugs her friend before walking off with Sean.

Kirsten smiles shyly at Sandy, suddenly nervous without Allison by her side. It had been too long since she'd really had a conversation with a boy -- not since Jimmy. And this boy, this Sandy, wasn't even a boy; he was a man. She breathes in, gathers all the confidence she can muster. "So you really don't have anything better to do on a Friday night then tag along with Sean and Allison?"

"I just moved here from California, so Sean and Allison are pretty much the only people I know," he explains. "But so far, tonight seems to be working out for me."

"I'm from California," she says, absent mindedly.

"Really? I just finished law school at Berkeley. Where are you from?"

She meets his eyes, challenges him. "Orange County."

His laugh, she notices, is deep and earthy and genuine. "Allison talks about you all the time, but she never mentioned that."

"Really?"

He nods. "Oh yeah. Brags about you, really. I have to say, I'm impressed. You put together an entire Senior Art Show while writing your Honors Thesis for your Econ major. Very impressive, even for one of you Harvard overachievers."

She purses her lips, smiling shyly at his compliment. "Thank you."

"Your parents must be proud of you."

She doesn't fight the urge to roll her eyes. "Not quite. My Dad was thrilled when picked Harvard for him over USC and my ex. He bit his tongue over the Art History major as long as I kept the Econ. But deferring my MBA in favor of an internship at the Boston Museum of Fine Art? He was really pissed about that."

"The Museum of Fine Art... So you're staying in town after graduation?"

"Al and I just signed the lease on an apartment right here in Cambridge."

Sandy remains quiet for a few moments, although she can sense that silence, for him, isn't something he does well. "Well, since you're staying in Boston... maybe we could meet for coffee sometime? You could show me around? I came out here looking for a fresh start, but I don't always want to be Sean and Allison's third wheel."

She meets his eyes cautiously, afraid if she moves too quickly she'll lose her nerve. "I'd like that," she answers slowly, purposefully. "I wanted a fresh start, too."

"Maybe we can find it together."

She catches a glimpse of his soul behind clear blue eyes and thinks that maybe, actually, they just might.

3.

The case he's been offered is almost too good to be true. A policy-changing piece of litigation, one he's promised will be taught in law school for years to come. As an added benefit, a chance to take down the Donald Trump of the west coast, the man who represents everything he hates about Orange County. And as the newest partner at Partridge, Savage & Kahn, it falls to him first.

The only real downside, from his perspective, is his co-counsel. Rachel, well qualified and highly motivated though she may be, has been making overtures of being more than just friends that only increased exponentially when his divorce finalized. Sandy finds her persistence maddening, at best.

"Sandy?"

He looks up from his desk. _Speak of the devil._ "Come in, Rachel."

But she's already across the threshold, thrusting a file toward him and leaning forward against his desk. "So," her voice is slow and deliberate, thick with innuendo, "big meeting with the Balboa Land Trust today."

"Definitely," he acknowledges, giving her a stiff nod of his head.

She stretches in front of him, then folds her arms across her chest. "I'm not sensing any enthusiasm here, Sandy. What happened to the tree-hugging crusader we all know and love? You're not actually reconsidering this case, are you?"

"I'm not." He releases a long sigh and aimlessly shuffles the loose papers on his desk. "I'm just tired."

"Too tired to protect the swamp rose from the rich and arrogant?"

"No, but it might not be the right time. With everything going on with the family..."

Rachel makes no attempt to hide her smug, triumphant smile. "Jimmy Cooper is a liar and a thief! Don't tell me you're going to go easy on his wife because you feel _sorry_ for her!"

"Ex-wife," he corrects. The distinction seems somehow important. "And she's second in command at the Newport Group; I'm pretty sure she doesn't need me to cut her any slack," he counters, glancing down at his bare left hand. "But there's been a new story in the paper every other day for the last ten months. Divorce is hard enough, I can't imagine how that is for her and her daughter. I may want to save the swamp rose, but I'm not heartless."

"Sandy Cohen, you are going soft." Rachel states, hands on her hips for emphasis. "I never thought Rebecca leaving you would mess you up this badly. You need to move on."

Silently, Sandy counts to ten. Bites his tongue and controls his temper. "I'll see you at 3:00 for our meeting," he says. Her eyes challenge him, but he does not waiver. "I've got some phone calls I need to make."

Alone once again, he reshuffles the loose files on his desk before the front page of that morning's newspaper catches his eye. _COOPER CAUGHT IN HAWAII: FACES MAXIMUM SENTENCE FOR FRAUD AND EVASION._ And underneath the article, a picture of the ex-wife and daughter, dressed up at some unnamed charity event. What kind of a man, Sandy reflects, would walk away from his family, his child?

He exhales and reaches for his phone, hand lingering on the receiver before lifting it to his ear. He takes out a business card and dials the numbers quickly, entering the proper extension when prompted.

It rings once, twice. Then, "Newport Group. Michael Langdon speaking."

"Michael, Sandy Cohen here. I believe we need to set up a meeting..."

He reaches for his schedule book, and his eyes linger on the photograph in the paper. He can't quite force himself to look away.

The day before the scheduled deposition, he receives a call from the Newport Group, a settlement offer far more generous than expected.

Langdon, an old friend from Berkeley and what seems like a lifetime ago, leaves him with this.

"You can say what you want about Mr. Nichol, but there is absolutely nothing he wouldn't do for his daughter."

4.

"Don't look now, but that guy over there is definitely checking you out."

Kirsten scowls into her martini glass before turning to glare at her best friend. "What do you mean?"

"I mean exactly what I said. The guy in the corner over there has been watching you all night."

"Lily!" Kirsten groans, exasperated. Ever since Lily got married the year before, her sole purpose in life seemed to be to set Kirsten up on a string of horrible blind dates. And while she loves her best friend dearly, she knows that Lily's taste in men is questionable at best; the only decent man Lily ever picked is the man whose ring she now wears.

"Don't look now, but he's coming over here."

"And how," Kirsten protests, taking a long drink from her martini, "do you know he's looking at me, and not you?"

Lily gives her an admonishing look. "Because I'm pretty sure I'm hidden in the shadows over here. Don't complain, Kir, he's kind of cute. I'd go for him myself if I weren't already taken."

Kirsten can't help but laugh. Before she gets a chance to protest, however, she's interrupted when the man in question seats himself on the other side of the table.

"I see your friends deserted you, so I thought I would come over and offer to buy you a drink."

"They're not her friends," Lily insists, ignoring the elbow Kirsten nudges in her direction. "What, you don't even like them!"

"Excuse my friend here," Kirsten apologizes, rolling her eyes. "I don't ... not like them. I grew up with them; they're my oldest friends."

"Your oldest friends who flew out here for Fashion Week and only stopped to see you to stage an intervention and drag you back home to stop Jimmy from marrying that tramp from Riverside." Lily finishes in a flourish and motions for Kirsten to move aside so that she can slide out of their booth. "Sorry about that, I didn't mean to lurk in the dark. I'm Lily, and this is Kirsten."

"I'm Sandy," he introduces himself. Even in the dimly-lit bar, Kirsten finds herself silently, begrudgingly agreeing with her best friend; this guy isn't entirely unattractive.

"Sandy Cohen!" Lily exclaims suddenly, and Kirsten frowns, confused. "My husband wouldn't know a baseball from a football, but some of his friends are huge fans. Speaking of, it's about time for the band to go on, so I'd better go get my camera out..."

Lily vanishes into the newly-gathered crowd before Kirsten gets a chance to protest, confused and disjointed in her friend's wake. "I'm sorry," Kirsten glances down, eyeing her now-empty glass nervously. "I ... have no idea what just happened."

"No, no," Sandy insists. "I interrupted you two. I didn't see her, and I thought that your other _friends_ left you here alone. Lily, though, she seems..."

"Well, she's more like her mother than she cares to admit," Kirsten smiles and rolls her eyes in an uncharacteristic display of playful candor. "Unlike the other girls who came here with us, she actually does mean well. But for my sake, please don't tell her what I said about her mom. She'll kill me."

He laughs. "I promise -- on one condition."

"What's that?"

"You let me buy you a drink."

She acquiesces easily, and he calls a waiter, who takes their order and then spends a full three minutes asking about some hit and run thing that, quite honestly, she isn't following. Sandy flashes her an apologetic smile and asks the waiter if he could, please, bring extra napkins when the drinks are ready.

Kirsten furrows her eyebrows inquisitively. "Okay, I don't get it. First Lily, then him. Are you a regular here or something?"

"Ahh, no," he answers. "I play baseball."

She frowns, confused. "I don't know much about baseball. Do you play in a league around here?"

"Kind of. I play left field for the Yankees."

"Oh." Her eyes cast downward, embarrassed, but the look on his face tells her he doesn't mind. "I guess that answers the 'are you any good?' question I was about to ask."

His shoulders shrug casually, and she wonders if he always smiles like that.

"So, Kirsten. What about you?"

Her hands safely hidden under the table, she twists her class ring nervously. His eyes fix upon hers, and she feels her resolve thawing under his gaze. "I run the New York branch of the Newport Group, and in my spare time, I help Lily and her husband with their art gallery in Brooklyn."

"You get a lot of spare time with a schedule like that?" he asks, raising an eyebrow with a bemused smile.

"Not really." She pauses briefly, thanking the waiter when he returns with their drinks. "But I love art, so I make time."

"What about the Newport Group," he asks, taking a swig from his beer, "Do you love that too?"

"It's a different kind of love," she bites her bottom lip, tentative, searching for the right words to explain. "My dad, he built the Newport Group up from nothing when I was a kid. I worked for him every summer from the time I went to high school. I love working for him, but not enough to want to work for the main branch back in California and have him micromanage every aspect of my life. So the New York branch is a good compromise." She meets his eyes, smiling shyly. "Did you always want to play baseball?"

"Always." He grins back, boyish enthusiasm etched across his face. "My uncle took me to my first game at Yankee Stadium when I was six, and that was when I knew. When my dad walked out on us, Uncle Seth got me into little league, went to every one of my games. He was really there for me." He pauses, meets her eyes, and for the first time, she allows herself to see the intensity behind them. "I know you said you weren't a baseball person, but if you wanted, I could get you some tickets. Maybe even convert you, if you have some spare time available."

"I could make some time. I'm a fast learner." She agrees, even though she'll probably never understand a sport that isn't tennis or field hockey or water polo. But in an uncharacteristic moment of clarity (or maybe recklessness, she's not sure), she fishes through her purse and pulls out the first piece of paper she can find - a receipt for a pair of Manolos she bought last week at Saks. She scribbles down her number, pushes it across the table and says, "Call me."

When she gets home, the light on her answering machine is already flashing. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Her father doesn't like him (Caleb always considered himself a Dodgers fan). His mother doesn't care much for her either (Really, couldn't he just find himself a nice Jewish girl?).

But she paints and he plays ball and they live like the children they never got to be in a fancy apartment on the Upper West Side, and the rest of it really doesn't matter at all.

5.

He looks up when he hears commotion just down the hall.

"My sister, Hailey Nichol. No, I don't want you to look into it. I want you to find out. NOW."

The voice has her back to him, but it doesn't seem to match its owner. Slender and blonde, wearing a fitted suit and precariously high heels. It's far more businesswoman than trophy wife. Not what he is expecting, given that the zip code on file tells him Hailey Nichol resides in Newport Beach.

A few moments' careful consultation and the guard points the voice in his direction. She spins rapidly and, before he can brace himself, is approaching him head on.

"Kirsten Nichol," she holds out her hand politely, giving him a tight smile.

_Kirsten Nichol_. He thinks that it should mean something, but he can't quite put his finger on it.

He smiles back, genuine. Trying to ease her obvious apprehension. "Sandy Cohen, I'm Hailey's public defender."

"Is she okay? Where is she?"

He reaches out, cautiously, but then retracts his hand. "She's fine, just collecting up her things. You can see her in just a few minutes."

_"Thank God,"_ she exclaims, visibly relieved. "I'm so sorry about all of this. If she had called me last night, I would have just had our family's lawyer handle it from the beginning." He frowns, but she continues, "No offense, Mr. Cohen, but Joel handles all of our family affairs. I'm sorry you had to go to all of this trouble for nothing..."

"It's no trouble," Sandy cuts in. "It's just a minor drug offense. Not to make light of it, or anything, because I would never. But I am fully capable. I may not have gone to Yale or Columbia, but I passed the bar just like everyone else. On the first try, no less."

"Mmmm," she nods. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be... like this. It's just hard. I can't reach her and I'm running out of options."

This time, when she looks over at him, it's all sad eyes and uncertain smile. And it strikes him that, actually, behind the business suit and stern voice, she's beautiful.

He reaches out again, this time not pulling away. "She's just young and confused. I'm sure you'll figure it out."

"You're optimistic for someone who spends his days in a place like this." She tilts her head, and her face softens a little, "I promised my mom that I would take care of Hailey. Some job I've done."

And that's when it hits him.

_Kirsten Nichol._ His friend Paul, that Halloween party, Emily calling Paul in tears to cancel because her roommate had to pack up and go home. Was moving back home because her mother had ovarian cancer and only a few months left.

The next month, when the _Revolution_ included a satire piece on The Retreat of Newport Barbie, how Emily had been furious. (She was so _nice_! This guy doesn't even _know her_! And this is her own personal tragedy, not something to get off on! You would have liked her Sandy, I know it...)

"I'm sorry," he says. "About your mother. I knew your roommate Emily, from Berkeley."

Her eyes closed, she exhales. "Of course you did."

"She was really upset when you had to leave."

She nods her head, resigned. "I was, too."

He is, possibly for the first time in his life, at a loss for words. But the silence there, together, is not uncomfortable.

"Thank God!" she cries out as Hailey approaches them. The fifteen year old looks much better now -- without the jumpsuit. "Explain. Now. Or better yet, why don't I call Dad up in Singapore and have you explain to him."

"Like Dad will care," Hailey scoffs.

"What about what Mom would say?"

"Well that's just the problem isn't it," Hailey snaps back angrily. "She _can't_ say!"

He feels guilty, eavesdropping on a private standoff that obviously runs much deeper than just the past 24 hours. But not guilty enough to walk away just yet.

"Hailey--" Kirsten's posture slackens, defeated. "You're all I have left. I don't know what I would do if something happened to you."

Sandy watches, fascinated, as the two sisters seem to reach a silent agreement. For a moment all is silent and peaceful, until--

"This isn't what you wanted, is it Kiks? USC and the Newport Group, building McMansions for Dad?"

"It doesn't matter, Hailey." But the look in her eyes tells him that it does.

Hailey reaches out for her sister's hand. "I'm sorry, Kirsten."

"I'm not." Kirsten wraps an arm around Hailey's shoulder. "I would do it all over again. But enough of this, we can sort it out later. Here--" she reaches into her purse and pulls out a set of keys. "Take these and meet me at the car."

Once Hailey disappears around the corner, Kirsten turns back towards him. "Thank you for taking care of my sister."

"It's not a problem at all." He reaches into his pocket and says, "Here's my card. My office will be in touch regarding her hearing."

She nods politely and accepts the card, inspecting it closely before placing it in the folds of her wallet. "Goodbye, Mr. Cohen."

As she walks away, her heels click softly against the cracked tile flooring, and he swears she meets his eyes in one final backwards glance, right before she turns the corner and disappears from his sight.

The next morning, Joel Lewis calls his office and takes over Hailey's case. He never sees Kirsten Nichol again.

6.

He notices her immediately, even from the other side of the ballroom; he finds his gaze drawn to her. She's the first person seated at the table to which, after further inspection and an uncharacteristic stroke of good luck, he also has been assigned.

He strides purposefully towards her, his eyes never once leaving the sight of the red dress at the table in the corner, until he is standing at the chair just next to hers. "Hi," he says, and she turns her head, startled. He motions to the chair, "Is this seat taken?"

"No, go right ahead," she smiles up at him, tucking a loose strand of hair behind a diamond-studded ear. She looks at him, her blue eyes shining brighter than her diamond earrings when she smiles, and he can't, for the life of him, figure out why blondes have never been his type before.

"I'm Sandy Cohen," he grins. "I know Carter from Berkeley. We had some, uh, mutual friends who worked on the _Revolution_ together."

"Kirsten Nichol," she replies. She doesn't offer any more than that, but her tone is warm and comfortable and he takes that as an invitation to continue.

"Bride or groom?" he asks.

"Groom," she replies, matter of fact. "Know him from Berkeley, too. We, ah, we dated casually a few years back."

"It must have been amicable if you're at his wedding," he comments, probing for more information in what he hopes is a charming but casual manner.

She furrows her eyebrows and gives him a look, bemused. "Do you always talk this much?"

"More, usually," he quips. "I'm a lawyer, so that's how they calculate my salary. But I promise that, on occasion, I have been known to let people get a word in edgewise."

"What a gentleman," Kirsten laughs, taking a sip from her wine glass. "It was, amicable that is. We were better off as friends; it didn't feel right. I'm sorry, you must think that's stupid."

He reaches out and gently touches her hand where it rests against the tablecloth. "I don't," he says softly. "Not at all."

No longer alone at the table, Sandy does not seem to take notice. He spends the better part of the wedding reception talking to Kirsten Nichol, pausing only when tradition dictates: the introduction of Mr. and Mrs. Carter Buckley, the first dance, the toasts. Even though, as promised, he does most of the talking, she captivates him with her soft, lilting laughter and quiet confidence, and her eyes light up when he asks about the art gallery she owns in Sausalito.

He frowns when he loses her attention to the dance floor. "Kirsten," he rises from his seat, extends his hand to her. "Care to dance?"

She bites her bottom lip, tentative, before smiling and accepting his hand. He guides her onto the dance floor and pulls her in close, swaying back and forth to the music. Kirsten is nothing like Rebecca, or even the few girls he dated after their less-than-amicable split, and he thinks that maybe that isn't such a bad thing.

He's never been much of a dancer, but Kirsten seems to manage just fine. He lets her guide him as much as his ego will allow. "You've done this before?" he comments.

She chuckles at this.

"What?"

She leans in closer, and he shivers pleasantly at the contact. "Nothing. Just debating what you would say if I told you that I was the lead deb at my cotillion. So the answer to your question is yes, I've done this a few times before."

"So, for you, this is like coming home," he says, twirling her out and then back in again. The music changes, but neither one seems to notice.

She smiles, bright and hopeful. "It feels right."

7.

Sandy clutches his arms close to his chest, guarding himself from the crowds as he climbs the steps and exits the subway. He crosses the street and a street vender immediately accosts him, offering him a pretzel or chestnuts or popcorn. He finds Central Park in December fascinating.

In the sea of tourists, clad in heavy coats and festive scarves, he notices a girl walking a few yards ahead of him when a gust of wind whips by, blowing her hat in the air. It lands a few feet in front of him, and he bends over to retrieve it. It's pink plaid and he's not sure, but it looks expensive. His sister Sarah, he thinks, would love this hat.

The girl - whom he guesses is just about Sarah's age - spins around quickly and approaches him. Closing the distance, he holds out his hand and offers the hat back to its rightful owner.

"Thanks," she says, smiling through rosy cheeks.

He nods. "Welcome."

_"Kiki!"_

"Coming, Daddy!" she calls over her shoulder. She flashes a quick smile and scampers back to her father.

Sandy shakes his head and watches as she vanishes in the crowd, pink hat clutched firmly in her hand.

Stupid rich kids.

xxx

_fin_

xxx

End Notes:

Some of the dialogue/lines in #3 are directly from The Heights. The concept for #4 was inspired by the short exchange between Sandy and Jimmy in The Links where Sandy mentions his childhood dream was to man LF for the Yankees; I also borrowed one of Lily's lines from The Gamble. The mention of the Halloween party in #5 was from The Game Plan, and the final line in #6 is a throwback to The Case of the Franks.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed. This was really fun to write :-)


End file.
